Poetry

In shadow of the moon, why 
an illict bone, indentured 
to the spirit of Buddha? 
 
The footsteps were retraced 
to find out the angst 
of disappearing grass. 
 
The blue eyes must remain 
unclosed to print the 
image of a pink cloud. 
 
This desperate retraction. 
I will not be able― 
to write a single poem. 
 
The unholy exit was 
damaging the steel of a 
proud man, still standing erect.